Mindless Drabble: Collection of a Fangirl
by old-fashioned villain
Summary: Collection of One-Shots. Drabble, drabble, drabble. Rated M for the grand, as of now unexecuted plans in my twisted mind. Forgive my horrible writing. Oh, and...AU in which neither Jim nor Sherlock have to die, ever. Moriarty/Sherlock.
1. Powers of Observation

**One-shot: Powers of Observation.**

**It is currently 11:18PM. I'm never in my right mind at times like these.**

* * *

What do you want? - SH

Let's have a little chat, shall we? - JM

What do you want? - SH

If anyone, YOU know what it's like to be bored, Sherlylocks. Well I am. I am so fucking bored that it makes me want to cry. - JM

You bore me. - SH

No, I don't. You love me, Sherlock. You know you do. - JM

Please. - SH

I am the most fun you've ever had and ever will. - JM

You murder people. - SH

Oh, but you find it fascinating, don't you, dear? Don't deny it for a second that you admire how well I do my work. - JM

Ah, thought so. So, darling, shall we go out? - JM

I don't have time for your games. - SH

My games are the only thing keeping you occupied. Your flat, 5 o'clock. Make me some tea. - JM

* * *

"How's my tea, darling?" Jim smiled slyly.

"I am not your darling," Sherlock replied coldly.

Jim walked around the table towards Sherlock.

"You know I'm not here for the tea, don't you, Sherlylocks?"

"If your powers of observations had not failed you due to your emotional disturbance, you would have had undoubtedly noticed that I didn't bother brewing any tea."

"Emotional disturbance?" Moriarty laughed out loud. "You're just getting that now?"

"Oh, but I was not referring to those traits that can be otherwise termed psychotic, Jim," Sherlock stared down at the shorter man. "Rather, I am remarking upon your interest in my persona accompanied by the dilation of pupils and increase in pulse, more commonly known as…love."

Jim looked a bit shaken now. "You don't know if my pulse has increased, Sherlylocks," he muttered, taking a tiny step back.

Sherlock did not hesitate to grab his slender wrist and bring it against his sharp cheekbone.

"Aha, there it is," he spoke softly. "Two beats off."


	2. Dreams

**One-shot: Dreams.**

**Did not proofread. Forgive my grammar. Beware of cheesiness.**

* * *

Jim was having another one of his nightmares. He had them so often, he was almost used to them. He was used to running down long, dark corridors, by room after room, hearing the screams coming from behind the closed doors. Yet there was always something unbearable, something subtle in each dream, so similar yet so different from the one before it – a feeling he couldn't quite describe, that could throw him off balance for the entire day…that is if Sherlock wasn't there to comfort him, when he woke up. And Sherlock was always there, just holding him quietly, never saying a word.

But tonight, Jim woke up alone.

He opened his eyes and felt a chill as he reached for the other side of the bed, where his lover would always be, waiting to welcome him to his arms. Tonight, the bed was cold.

Jim spotted a dark outline in the corner of the room and felt a breeze coming through the open window. Sherlock was sitting there, staring blankly at the passing cars, slowly exhaling smoke out his lungs. Jim noticed a crumpled pack of cigarettes at his feet – Sherlock just bought it the night before and now it lay empty on the floor.

Jim stumbled out of bed and towards the silent figure in the corner.

"Sherlock?" He called out gently.

"You never talk, when you have nightmares," Sherlock stated, steel in his voice.

"What?" Jim stopped dead in front of the window, taken aback.

"You have never spoken a word in your sleep before," Sherlock repeated. "You did tonight."

"What…what did I say?" Jim was confused.

"My name."

As Jim shuffled closer, he noticed tears in the detective's eyes. He's never seen Sherlock like that before.

"Well, I must have…I was about to wake up, and I guess…you're always there, so maybe-"

"What do you dream about, Jim?" Sherlock interrupted. "What EXACTLY are your nightmares about?"

"I've told you, Sherlock…" Jim stuttered. "It's always the same. I'm running through a corridor and I hear screams and then-"

"And then you reach a door. A door that is slightly ajar. What's behind that door, Jim?"

"I…I don't know, I usually wake up then, Sherlock, I don't know," Jim inhaled.

"You're lying," Sherlock suddenly rose to his feet. "I know what's behind that door, Jim. I am. That's why you were calling out my name tonight. I was behind that door."

"Why were you crying, Sherlock?" Jim inquired tentatively.

"I thought you don't care, Jim. I thought this was just another game of ours," Sherlock paused and finally turned to face the smaller man. His lips were trembling. "You were begging, Jim, you were begging them to stop, to stop…torturing me. In what kind of sick, twisted dream do you imagine you would want to…protect me?" He spat out the last two words.

"Sherlock, I-"

"Why do you care?" Sherlock screamed. "WHY DO YOU BLOODY CARE?"

"Because I love you," Jim blurted out.

Sherlock looked as if he had been slapped. He backed away from Jim, tripping over his own feet and collapsing onto the bed. Jim just stood there at the window, unable to believe that he had just confessed his love to his enemy. Sure, they slept together, but that didn't change a thing. They were playing. They were playing a game. And Jim Moriarty had just lost.

He heard soft sobs coming from the darkness. Jim walked over and observed Sherlock's twisted form on the bed. His body was shaking with sobs and his hands were clenching the bed sheets violently.

"This is not how it's supposed to go, is it?" Jim whispered, climbing into the bed and gently touching Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock shivered at his touch and crawled over to Jim's feet, grabbing his wrists and holding on to them as if his life depended on it.

"Shhh, Sherlylocks," Jim wrapped his arms around the detective. "Don't be silly. There's nothing to cry about. I will leave in the morning and you'll forget all about this."

Sherlock grasped his hand and whimpered.

Finally, he lifted his pale face and stared into Jim's eyes.

"No," he begged. "You can't go. You can't leave me. I need you. I love you, Jim Moriarty. I don't want to but I can't help it. I can't help loving you."

Jim smiled slightly. He's been expecting this.

"Don't worry, Sherlylocks," he assured him. "I'm not going anywhere if you don't want me to."

Sherlock exhaled and threw himself onto Jim, planting a kiss on his lips, for the first time ever on his own accord.


	3. Nicotine Patches and Solitude

One-shot. Lacks proof-reading. Created in Art History Class while Discussing _Cornelia Presenting Her Children as Her Treasures. _

* * *

Sherlock let his head fall back against the soft fabric of the chair feeling the patches tingle his flesh and his neck muscles relax. He stared at the ceiling blankly. Boring. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. It was strangely quiet in the flat. _Their flat._

It was Jim's idea, of course – to rent a place where they could both escape the boring, tiresome, dreary, normal world outside, escape it together in each other's arms. That was the original idea, nonetheless. Jim found the flat himself, paid for it, stocked it with books, cushions, sofas, armchairs, DVDs, coffee makers, and anything else he found "sexy". Sherlock failed to comprehend the sexiness of cushions and coffee makers, but it was not really up to him. With Jim, it was never really up to him. They did not live at the flat, oh no. They did not even make arrangements to meet up. They would both just wander here, each with their own worries and each seeking their own kind of escape. Sometimes Sherlock would just find Jim pacing back and forth in a t-shirt and underwear, or cuddled up on a sofa with some gruesome film playing on mute as he snored away. Or Jim would find Sherlock – reading, or drumming his long fingers on yet another coffee table Jim salvaged from IKEA, or hidden away in his mind palace. And sometimes they would sit together – watching a movie, or having dinner, or simply holding each other. They never really talked – the flat was about solitude, quietness, and stillness.

Sherlock felt himself drifting away into the cold, empty oblivion of the deepest corners of his consciousness, nicotine patches eating away at his skin. It was a soothing sensation.

Then he heard noises – loud, penetrating, invading his mind, slipping between the patches and the skin and turning the pleasant tingling into incessant burning. Noises were not welcome in this flat. There was the rattling of keys, stumbling of feet. Jim.

Jim was always quiet – sneaking up behind Sherlock, tugging at his shirt, or tracing his cheekbone, or brushing his hair from his face. Jim only made noises when they made love. No. When they made love, he whispered Sherlock's name, or held his face breathing heavily. Jim only made noises when they had sex.

Sherlock remained silent, breathing softly, his eyes closed. After a while, the noise stopped and it got quiet again – so quiet Sherlock almost believed that he dreamed the wild, unexplainable invasion of his privacy.

He didn't hear Jim as he approached – didn't hear him dragging him limp leg across the wooden floor, didn't hear him panting, didn't hear the drops of blood hitting the floorboards. Sherlock was drifting away into the cold, empty oblivion of the deepest corners of his consciousness, nicotine patches eating away at his skin. It was a soothing sensation.

"Sher- Sherlylocks…" Had Sherlock been listening, he would have heard the pain behind the teasing tone of Jim's voice – the agony of a small piece of metal eating away at your flesh with your every breath.

"A little…help?"

It was so quiet – so quiet Sherlock almost believed that he dreamed the wild, unexplainable invasion of his privacy. And then there was a loud crash, reverberating against the walls, the cushions, the DVDs, and the coffee makers.

The bullet barely missed an artery. It was sitting in the lower part of Jim's calf – only a few inches deep, but enough to make Jim scream, and whimper, and beg, and scream again as Sherlock pulled it out with a scalpel – why would Jim ever think of buying a scalpel for their flat? – and poured vodka on it for disinfection – why would Jim ever think of buying a bottle of vodka for their flat? – and wrapped Jim's leg and wiped Jim's sweat and washed away Jim's blood.

"Why would you come here?" Sherlock wondered out loud as he tugged on Jim's torn shirt, and traced his cheekbone, and brushed off his messy hair. "Why here of all places?"

"I knew you'd be here," Jim replied with a soft chuckle, and immediately hisses in pain – everything burns.

"Were you watching me again?" Sherlock smiled, sliding down against the wall onto the cold floor next to where Jim had collapsed minutes earlier.

"I just knew you'd be here," Jim reaches out for Sherlock's face – flinches in pain – and pulls him in for a kiss. He barely touches his lips before slumping back down, exhausted.

They sit there, together, in their flat, cramped with books, cushions, sofas, armchairs, DVDs, coffee makers, and everything else Jim found "sexy". It's quiet and still. They don't talk, they just hold each other. Sherlock let his head fall back against the rough surface of the wall feeling the patches tingle his flesh and his neck muscles relax.


End file.
